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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23287330">A Case of You</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleL27/pseuds/DoubleL27'>DoubleL27</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Schitt's Creek</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5+1 Things, Boys In Love, David Rose is a Good Person, Fluff, M/M, Patrick Brewer is a Troll, Romance, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, rated t for david's language</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 10:41:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,079</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23287330</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleL27/pseuds/DoubleL27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Patrick gives David an utterly ridiculous gift for Valentine's Day and one time David does something really romantic</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Patrick Brewer/David Rose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>272</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Case of You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I feel like we could all use the fluff at this point in time. This is unbetaed but heavily edited by me. It was just time to get it out.</p>
<p>Per usual, thanking the patrons of my favorite bar for all their support on this. Special shout out to RQ who went back and forth with me on what the different gestures might be and helped me hone in this crazy idea I've been working on for over a month.</p>
<p>Title is from Joni Mitchell's A Case of You.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>David enters the store, swinging the door open in a wide arc and stomping the snow off of his Moncler boots, duffle swinging from his arm. “Fuck, it’s cold,” David says, unwrapping the scarf from his face. He needs his family to not steal the car when none of them have places to be before noon. He’s leaving his toque on in the store. He doesn’t care. “I don’t know why you can’t—“</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His eyebrows shoot somewhere in the vicinity of the stratosphere as his mouth falls open.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A heart shaped box that looks to be over a meter across is propped up on the back shelves, overtaking product and directly in his line of sight. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>David looks wildly around until spotting his boyfriend and business partner who is studiously counting candles and checking things off on his clipboard. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, what is this?” He asks, recovering his powers of speech and gesturing wildly with his whole arm, twisting as it moves further away from his body. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick glances up suddenly, as if he didn’t hear the bell with those perfect ears, and then follows David’s gesture to the monstrosity covering up multiple shelves of product. He gives a shrug like finding heart boxes wider across than he is and decorated with cardboard fringe are normal. “Mmm, looks like a giant heart shaped box there, David.” The hand with his beloved FriXion pen in it points to the back wall. “Note on the front has your name on it. I would read it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick turns back and moves on to another shelf of candles like nothing is amiss. Patrick hums under his breath like he didn’t go and put a huge neon target at the back of the store.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?” David demands, going to throw his bag behind the counter before stalking to the back wall. “Why are you like this?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Like what?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Valentine’s Day is a stupid overly-commercialized holiday! Today is for capitalizing on every idiot heterosexual man who forgot until his wife handed him a card over breakfast and now needs an emergency gift.” David cannot wait to ply every idiot he can with bath products and scarves and anything else that he can talk them into. He does not want to have to think of the fact he didn’t do anything for Patrick.  “We’ve been over this!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s Laura Secord!” Patrick laughs at him, clearly tickled with himself. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You think you’re so damn funny. I get that this is like your stupid anniversary gifts—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick grins wildly, popping his hip to lean against the shelf. “Which you secretly love.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Do I?” David asks, as if he hasn’t eaten every bit of food, worn every piece of jewelry, and kept every card Patrick has written in a special bundle. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick just blinks at him, like someone who has no idea what he’s doing. David knows his boyfriend is far more calculated than that. Patrick rarely acts without considering every angle, every possibility and striking with the precision of Miranda Priestley. His boyfriend is a wolf in sheep's clothing.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The</span>
  <em>
    <span> point</span>
  </em>
  <span> is </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>think it’s funny,” David continues, hands flailing, “when really this stuff only means things to high schoolers.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Aww, David,” Patrick practically coos, “did no one send you gifts in high school?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>, no one had sent David gifts, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever</span>
  </em>
  <span>, until Patrick. David had been the gift giver, selecting items for people who couldn’t care less for most of his life until he had stopped. Rom-coms were not real life. People didn’t actually do or need these things. At least not until this man had wandered into his life with his monthly anniversaries and dedicated serenades and olive branches. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That still wasn’t the point.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> “The point is—no one </span>
  <em>
    <span>needs</span>
  </em>
  <span> this stuff. And you’re blocking </span>
  <em>
    <span>key</span>
  </em>
  <span> merchandise! I’m taking this into the back room.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, David.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It takes a few seconds for David to figure out how to pick the box up and maneuver with it through the store. The box blocks his view and is more awkward than he thought. David is fairly certain he looks as graceful as he did carrying the damn box of dog sweaters, but Patrick told him he loved him that day.He edges around shelves and tables loaded with product and manages to get it into the back room without any major damage. Only a few bottles roll to the floor and Patrick thankfully scurries to pick them up after David attempts a glare. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Once David got into the back, he carefully laid it flat and peeled the card off the top. David ran his finger under the sealed edge of the envelope. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re in my heart. You’re in my soul.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Patrick </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>P.S. let’s try and make this box last at least a week, yeah?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>David slides a chocolate from the box and pops it into his mouth. They’re just as fucking delicious as he imagined they would be. David picks up another one, tucking the note carefully inside. The candies might last four days if Stevie and Alexis never find it. David makes the judicious decision to keep it here in the back room where only he and Patrick will know of its existence. Best for both his ego and his ownership of the chocolates.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>David eats another three before carefully putting the lid back on and propping up the giant heart. He sucks his lips in between his teeth and shakes his head, but his heart squeezes painfully inside his chest all the same.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>💖💖💖💖💖</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>David knows he’s in trouble when Twyla slips into the store early Valentine’s morning (11:30 counts as early), her apron still wrapped around her hips and her smile big enough that it takes over her whole face. A sense of unease skitters up his spine, because there’s absolutely no reason for her to have shrugged on her parka and skipped across the street. “Can I help you?” He asks archly, not coming out from behind the counter. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, David, no,” Twyla bubbles and the unease grows, spreading into his chest. “I’m very happy to be your singing telegram this morning.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, what?” David gasps, double and triple checking the store for any guests he might have missed and blessedly finds it empty. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The Jazzagals sold singing Valentines as a fundraiser for the next acapella competition! Isn’t that fun?!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Twyla continues babbling about the bus fees and entrance fees but its all white noise to David. Nothing about singing telegrams is fun. Not the singing. Not the telegram. Certainly not Twyla doing the singing. Patrick is the only person David will ever give special dispensation to sing for him. Mostly because David can’t picture anything Patrick sings being embarrassing, not after he literally re-arranged Tina Turner's</span>
  <em>
    <span> The Best</span>
  </em>
  <span> into one of the most romantic moments of David’s life.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This, however, is actually embarrasing.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, hold on.” Twyla rummages one her apron pocket and pulls out a piece of sage green paper and begins reading, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>To David: this song pretty much speaks for itself. Patrick.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Of course, his boyfriend disappeared to go fetch lunch for them, and offered to drive at least a half an hour to get food David prefers from Elmdale. David has specifically told him food was always the only true acceptable Valentine’s gift, aside from sex. Patrick just grinned at him and promised to be back in an hour. That was ten minutes ago. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Twyla opens her mouth and begins singing a wobbly version of Celine’s arrangement of </span>
  <em>
    <span>The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>David wants to drop into the floor. At the very least, he wants to shoot past Twyla and lock the door so no one can come in while someone who is very much </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> his boyfriend serenades him. It is just as embarrassing as he envisioned the first open mic night to be before he realized Patrick could actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>sing</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He wants to draw curtains the store doesn’t have down as Twyla continues, swaying along as she sings.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When she finishes, David just nods as Twyla gives herself a happy little clap and beams at him. It takes David’s brain at least fifteen seconds to realize she’s waiting for him to </span>
  <em>
    <span>say</span>
  </em>
  <span> something. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>David works his mouth for another five seconds before managing a strangled, “Thank you, Twyla. That was quite something.” He plasters his best fake smile on his face and hopes it’s enough.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I’m so glad you liked it,” Twyla misunderstands, effusively. “Don’t forget to thank Patrick. He’s so sweet.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmm. Mmhmm. Yes. Will do,” David agrees, plotting his sweet boyfriend’s murder in his head.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick swings in nearly an hour later, with a large bag of Thai food and a grin splitting his face. His cheeks are pink from the cold and his toque is askew, leaving one ear entirely exposed. David might have found the picture adorable if he hadn’t taken the last three-quarters hour to carefully plot Patrick’s demise. As it stands, Patrick stills, and his eyes rake over David’s face multiple times. David knows his face is probably hiding nothing and casts his eyes down to the countertop, carefully ordering the very orderly chapsticks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Did something happen?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span>“Uh,” David looks up finally, chapsticks in his hand, and the vision of Twyla standing where Patrick was now coming back in vivid technicolor. “Your </span><em><span>gift</span></em><span>, and I am being </span><em><span>very generous</span></em><span> with that word, bopped in here and</span><em><span> sang,</span></em> <em><span>Celine,</span></em><span> of</span><em><span> all </span></em><span>people.”</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick has the grace to look slightly embarrassed and scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Oh, that.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>David purses his lips tightly and then releases a breath. “Yeah, </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick’s dimples poke out of hiding as his grin returns and he advances, dropping the take out on the counter. His voice is warm and slightly graveley as he explains, “Your mom accosted me with paper and pens and insisted. What was I supposed to say?” He rounds the counter, coming to stand in front of David.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No!” David tells him, his anger sliding away as Patrick moves further into his personal space. Patrick’s arms settle in at his waist and David lifts his arms to wrap around Patrick’s neck automatically. His voice is almost a whisper as he tells Patrick, “You were supposed to </span>
  <em>
    <span>say no</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Please,” Patrick returns, pressing a kiss to the side of David’s neck, stilling David’s movements, “saying no to a Rose is like trying to stop a freight train with your hand. I’ve learned to hop on for the ride.” Patrick trails kisses up David’s neck and he tilts his head slightly, giving Patrick access to the shell of his ear. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a mistake though, because Patrick sucks on his ear right before ruining everything by saying, “I had considered going with KC and Jojo’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>All My Life.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe a little bit of Shania would have gone better.” Patrick continues, following the path back down to David’s collar bone. “Would you have rather had </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re Still the One</span>
  </em>
  <span> or </span>
  <em>
    <span>From This Moment On</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>David Pulls back and presses his lips against Patrick’s, hoping to kiss all the stupid jokes right out of his stupid boyfriend’s face. “I would prefer the only person to ever sing at me in public to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And only on pre-designated days.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So noted, David.” Patrick says, a little breathless and his eyes lacking focus. “What I hear you saying is you need me to cancel the second singing telegram: your mother coming to sing </span>
  <em>
    <span>My Funny Valentine</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>David’s hands pinch at Patrick’s shoulders before he pushes his boyfriend away, utterly . One of his fingers comes up to do a pointed dance around Patrick’s face. “If that is not a fucking joke, than </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>, yes you had better.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick lets out a laugh: long, loud and deep. His head falls back, which is usually David’s move, and that pale throat is left exposed. David wants to do things to Patrick that are not to be done at noon in the middle of the store. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Instead, he moves to grab his box of Pad Thai out of the bag and rips open the disposable chopsticks. “I don’t see you dialing!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>💖💖💖💖💖</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The smell of fresh breakfast curls inside his nose, particularly the smell of fresh frying bacon, and his mouth is already watering when David’s eyes open. The bed is empty aside from him, Patrick’s side neatly remade. David blinks at the pale winter light filtering through the gap in the curtains, stretching slightly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>David blinks at the clock which reads 11:00. Patrick let him sleep in, as unusual for a Friday morning as the smell of a variety of breakfast items. Although, considering the storm has dropped enough snow to keep Schitt's Creek frozen for the time being, David’s not surprised. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>David wraps the whole comforter around himself, padding out from the bedroom and through the house to the eat-in kitchen. The house is still new and beginning to feel lived in with a mix of David’s ultra-modern and Patrick’s industrial mid-century tastes mixing somewhat correctly at this point. Although, considering they ended up purchasing a Craftsman Bungalow that tends slightly more toward Patrick’s particular tastes. He likes the slight ultra-modern touches that keep the house from looking entirely outdated.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Following the trail of smells, David makes it into the kitchen. Patrick seems to sense him and without turning around, greets him with,  “Morning, Sunshine.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>David smiles at the familiar greeting and moves to the table where plates are already set up. There’s a steaming latte from the machine he had bullied Stevie and Alexis to gifting them for the wedding. David picks up the mug and takes a grateful sip.  When he looks closely at the plate, however, he stutters. “What—what is this?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick turns away from the counter, tongs in hand and grins at David. “Breakfast?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmkay. So when I asked what</span>
  <em>
    <span> this</span>
  </em>
  <span> is,” David clarified, waving his hands in the general table space. “I didn’t mean, like, what physically </span>
  <em>
    <span>it</span>
  </em>
  <span> is. I meant that everything seems to be heart shaped.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a circular waffle, with careful indents spaced evenly, so that it creates five heart shaped waffles combined into a larger doily type pattern. There are sunny side up eggs that are perfect hearts, yolks wobbling in the middle. David has never seen a more absurd plate since his parents had taken them to a character breakfast at Disney and he had been forced to look at inane compositions of Mickey’s face. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Are they?” Patrick asks, his voice rising a little high at the end, giving him away.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Where did you get heart shaped waffles? Waffles are circles or squares. They aren’t hearts.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick circles his finger to show the general outside of the waffles, face so carefully blank David is certain he’s being fucked with. “It’s a circle.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The individual waffles are not quarter circles, they’re hearts. See,” David argues back, his hand actually mimicking the perimeter of the waffles, “the little indents here and here and here and—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I suppose.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The eggs?” David asked, his voice still living in the higher register. “We’re going to pretend the eggs aren’t heart shaped?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick turned away but his shoulders gave away his laughter with a light shake. “They came that way.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Eggs </span>
  <em>
    <span>do not</span>
  </em>
  <span> come as hearts.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Got them from that new farm we’re trying out in the store. Maybe Tiffany Owens has special chickens. ”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Patrick!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“David.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ugh,” Realisation comes to him far too late. Somewhere between the blizzard and three days of not going to work, including their usual day off, David has lost track of time. He buries his face in his hands. “It’s Valentine’s Day?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“February 14th is just an ordinary day,” Patrick shrugs, still not looking. Although, he pulls a fresh fried piece of bacon out of the pan and holds it up to drip. It also has a very distinctive curve and point. “Although, everything keeps turning up heart-shaped.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re ridiculous.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Unable to wait for his husband to be done, David butters his waffles and pours syrup over the top. However, when he cuts into one of the waffles and freezes. They looked normal on the top, all delightfully golden brown, but when he cut the piece open, they were not normal. “Did you—you dyed the waffles pink? You</span>
  <em>
    <span> dyed </span>
  </em>
  <span>the </span>
  <em>
    <span>waffles </span>
  </em>
  <span>pink. They’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>pink</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re pink?” Patrick gasps, clearly mocking him, eyes wide. Patrick slides into the seat across from David at the kitchen table. The plate of bacon gets placed in between them, also carefully arranged into hearts. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Did the bacon</span>
  <em>
    <span> magically</span>
  </em>
  <span> curl that way in the pan?” David asks, an eyebrow lifting of its own volition.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Weird, huh?” Patrick shrugs, picking up a piece of heart shaped bacon and carefully biting off one of the curved tops. His grin only got wider as he chewed, eyebrows doing a barely-visible dance as he waited for a reaction from David. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re lucky it tastes good,” David grumbles, shoving another forkful of waffle into his mouth to keep from smiling back. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>💖💖💖💖💖</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>By the time the fifth pink carnation is somehow laid across the cash wrap with nary a word and not a sign of how they pop up there like clockwork, every half an hour, David can’t keep his mouth shut anymore. Something about the way the pale pink sits starkly against the black veneer of the counter drives David insane. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What is this?” he asks, loudly to his husband who is busily labeling perfume bottles before their usual Valentine’s lunch rush of people who forgot their partners like Valentine’s Day. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick glances up, a sticker hanging from his thumb and tilts his head. “Looks like a flower, David,” he says, before going back to carefully applying the label.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I know</span>
  <em>
    <span> what</span>
  </em>
  <span> it is. It’s a pink carnation!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick doesn’t even look up. He keeps applying labels like David isn’t unspooling slightly. David feels everything inside magnify, pressing outwards from inside his chest, at his husband’s nonchalance. There are times where David hates the calm tone Patrick manages to maintain in these situations. Like when he just drawls, “So, the question was rhetorical?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No! </span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” David insists, the vehemence creeping into his voice. Patrick looks up then, as David hisses, “I want to know what </span>
  <em>
    <span>it’</span>
  </em>
  <span>s doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick puts down the bottles and stickers before crossing the floor to where David is standing. He leans over the counter and flips the note carefully tied to the stem. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I wish you all the love in the world, but most of all I wish it from myself</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Patrick looks up and glances at David, shit-eating grin making the dimples pop out of his cheeks. “Aww. Looks like you have a secret admirer.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You’re my secret admirer,” David accuses, snatching up the flower and waving it at Patrick.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Am I? Didn’t think it was a secret, David.” Patrick twists his wedding band around his finger twice before lifting his hand and waggling it right back at David.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>David tries to keep the amusement buried under the annoyance as his expression shifts. “I thought it was cute when you sourced the flowers for Jocelyn’s little fundraiser for her horny students, but this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> much. And pink carnations! You know my feelings.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>David hears his mother’s voice pouring out of his own mouth and doesn’t particularly like it. Then, he’s always been his mother’s son. Their shared feelings about fashion, skin care and flowers are just a part of his life. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The most basic of flowers,” Patrick nods along, his face suddenly solemn but David knows that doesn’t mean he actually feels any of it. “Meant for small children and the infirm.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmm,” David nods furiously. Still, he adds the flower to the other four, unable to throw them out even if they’re awful flowers. Each one has a different song lyric, and if he had thought they were from the teenage boy they hired on part time, the lyric </span>
  <em>
    <span>you give me everything i need </span>
  </em>
  <span>on the last one telegraphed very clearly that his husband thought he was funny. “And yet, you’re doing this.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t see my name signed there, David.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>David turned his head to see his husband, hands shoved deep in his pockets rocking back on his heels. “Fleetwood Mac lyrics are right up your alley! And you don’t think I didn’t notice the Joni Mitchell one in there. And TINA! The first song you ever sang for me. This is you!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick just shakes his head and remains unphased. Damn him. Damn him and his fucking sweetness. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>David turns away, futsing with the arrangement that is too small for the vase he has to keep the scraggly carnations in. Well, scraggly in the way that carnations are always scraggly, and not like actually cheap. Patrick did source nice ones for the high school. “I never should have told you about that time I sent flowers to a lot of different people in middle school and got none in return. It was a mistake.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Arms slip around David’s waist and against his better judgment, David leans back into the embrace. Patrick’s voice drops to that low, gravely voice that telegraphs emotion and it does things to David. “Someone loves you enough to be sending you some Valentine’s flowers and is supporting the local school and us, because we sourced the flowers. I think it all works out.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>SOMEONE</span>
  </em>
  <span> could just keep the money in our bank account!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“They could,” Patrick agrees, pressing a kiss to David’s neck. “But what would be fun in that?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re ridiculous,” David mutters, his eyes rolling affectionately. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>💖💖💖💖💖</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>By the time they’ve been married for ten years, David knows to steel himself for Patrick’s Valentine’s Day gesture. There will always be some ludicrous gift that is the wheelhouse of teenagers and romantic comedies, but particularly teenage romantic comedies, that David has to roll his eyes at and grumble. David should really stop watching the types of movies that give Patrick ideas.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Still, Patrick keeps doing them and isn’t entirely wrong when he asserts that David loves it. David loves attention and love and Patrick has gathered enough intel to figure out how to best add a ridiculous spin on something incredibly touching. Somewhere around the God-awful carnations, which was so high school it was almost painful, David realized that Patrick wasn’t just making up for David’s embarrassing stories of Valentine’s days gone awry. Patrick was likely making up for all of the Valentine’s Days Patrick did all of these stupid things for Rachel out of a sense of obligation and not because he actually wanted to. He’s giving them all of these stupid moments for real and it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>almost</span>
  </em>
  <span> (exceedingly) touching. Thankfully, Patrick never forces them to be a full public spectacle with dinners out or flash mobs.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This morning, he’d woken up to an empty bed and a little sticky note on the pillow (not heart shaped thankfully) to come in around noon. David spent his shower wondering if that meant the surprise was waiting for him at home or if coming in at noon was integral to the plan. One never knows with his husband.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Waiting for him in the living room is a heart shaped poster board covered in photos with large black letters writing out </span>
  <b>Baby, You’re Timeless to Me.</b>
  
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>David grinds his teeth, closing in on the poster. Patrick needs to spend less time listening to the soundtrack of this year's community theater production, Hairspray. Patrick isn’t even playing Mr. Turnblad but is a very sexy Corny Collins. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The pictures on the poster aren’t even good ones. David leans in to examine them and realises they’re photographs from the entire course of their relationship. Photographs that David made Patrick promise no one would ever see. There’s one of him in the half-empty store before it had even been set up, frowning over a box of product. Another one is one of the rejected engagement hike photos, which is a close up of David’s face, tear-reddened eyes and a giant sun glare taking over most of the picture. There’s countless more. An off-center David sitting at the picnic table behind the motel, an out-of-focus picture of him and Patrick, foreheads touching and ties undone from the wedding, one he’d never seen before of himself—asleep and face mashed into the pillow. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>If anyone else could see this he would have definitely had a minor fit. Okay, </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe</span>
  </em>
  <span> a major fit. These are not for public consumption and critique. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But the longer he stares at them, the more he finds the stupid feeling in his chest getting heavier and taking up space. David is brought back to his mother searching for her lost nudes, of all things, and had asked him the next day to help her upload an actual nude photo she had found on the internet because she wanted him and Alexis to be able to find it whenever they wanted. As horrifying as that sentiment was, his mother talked about how much kinder she was to herself in the future. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>While he would still never let Patrick put any of these pictures up on the internet, including another sleeping one of him, his head in Patrick’s lap, there is something about this very high school yearbook collated collection that has David blinking back tears. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His stupid husband made him the dumbest poster ever and David is standing in their living room crying about it. Only Patrick could figure out how to make blurry, off-center and very private photos into something entirely romantic. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Irrationally, David wishes Patrick was here in the house right now. Had Patrick been here upon discovery, David probably would have yelled at him, which is certainly why Patrick left it for him to discover on his own. Still, David wants to yell at his husband and bury his face in his neck all at the same time.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>David takes the phone out of his pocket and speeddials the store. Patrick picks up on the second ring and by the way he practically sings, “Morning, David.” David can picture him, his hip popped out to lean on the counter, and a wide grin on his face.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, how </span>
  <em>
    <span>dare</span>
  </em>
  <span> you?” David growls into the phone, more irritated that he can’t put his hands on his husband than he was before.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick’s voice is a smile mixed with a kiss as he drawls, “I take it you’ve made it to the living room.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>💖💖💖💖💖</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The thing is, after several years of living as an adult human with another adult human, you eventually pick up some skills in the kitchen. David is no longer someone who has to google folding in the cheese and he can actually make most of the six mother sauces at this point. Patrick teased him mercilessly about loving food but not knowing what to do with it. So, David learned a few select recipes to excel at for those times that Patrick cannot or will not cook and they don’t want to get take out. Somewhere around opening the second store, when they had dipped out of the black for a while, it became a necessity.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>So if David has carefully manufactured an error in scheduling at the Elm Glen store where Patrick had to go and manage the store for the day, David can’t be sorry. For once, he’s going to put more effort into this stupid holiday than Patrick. Patrick who still, after all these years, seems to have an endless list of ways to embarrass David with gifts. Patrick had looked at him with those whiskey puppy eyes before going to cover Elm Glen and David had known Patrick had indeed had a good one for this year as well. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>David skipped out of work early, leaving the store in their assistants’ talented hands, and is now almost done with his carefully planned dinner. David keeps fluttering over the table settings, his area of expertise, making them perfect. Patrick should be nothing short of entirely bowled over by this romantic gesture. Usually the most David does for Patrick on Valentine’s Day is putting a bow somewhere on his body or laying out a new toy to try.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This year, however, is different. Lighting the candles in the middle of the table, David’s thoughts track to his parents. Burying his dad last year remains the hardest thing David has ever done. He and Alexis have been wrapped up in keeping their mother on any kind of even keel without her </span>
  <em>
    <span>tireless rudder</span>
  </em>
  <span> as she still refers to their father. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>David knows he took for granted the relationship his parents have—had, and Patrick’s parents and how that certainty in marriage has allowed them to maintain their own. For all the million things his parents were terrible at, Moria and Johnny Rose were an amazing team. His mother without his father is adrift and the loss has David feeling far older than he ever has before.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>So what if David thinks most Valentine’s Day traditions are tacky and stupid and pointless. His husband adores every sappy moment of Valentine’s Day, despite all the joke gifts that Patrick uses to pretend it doesn’t mean as much to him as it does. David knows that Patrick’s joy is in the giving, in convincing David that he is worthy of all the love and attention Patrick always showers on him. David thinks of his father as a similar font of unwavering support for his mother and how she’s trying to find her footing without him. David wants to give Patrick at least a fraction of that devotion back.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The door opens and David sighs, looking over the table. Everything looks just right against the hand woven tablecloth from Elsie Turner’s workshop. </span>
  <span></span><br/>
<span><br/>
</span>
  <span>David listens to the familiar sounds of Patrick stomping the snow off of his boots and can hear him unraveling from the cold. “Well, Elm Glen was busy,” Patrick calls into the house. “I’m glad I was there to help today since somehow we misscheduled Denise. I don’t know how that happened.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“In the dining room,” David returns, his body humming with anticipation. He turns to the doorway of the formal room they barely use and waits for his husband to come through it. Patrick is still mumbling about his day but David can’t hear it over his own excitement buzzing in his ears.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And then Patrick’s in the doorway, his hand scrubbing at his hair, long since gone silver like his father’s. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“David,” Patrick’s voice is a question, his mouth vibrating softly the way it does when he feels too much to settle on an actual expression. “What’s—Did you make me a Valentine’s Day dinner?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I—Yes,” David returns, his own grin threatening to split his face. “Yes, I did.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The grin peeks out full force, dimples and all. Patrick’s head tilts to the side, taking everything in and finally settling on David.  “David, you hate Valentine’s Day.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,</span>
  <em>
    <span> well</span>
  </em>
  <span>, one: </span>
  <em>
    <span>hate</span>
  </em>
  <span> is a very, very strong word.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick’s dimples become more pronounced. He begins ticking off David’s arguments against Valentine’s Day on his fingers. “Tacky. Meaningless. Manufactured Love. For children and people with children who don’t derive enjoyment from life anymore and need an excuse to escape their boring lives.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You </span>
  </em>
  <span>love it,” David reminds him, his grin slipping into a soft half smile. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“David, I don’t love it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, you do. You</span>
  <em>
    <span> do</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” David protests as Patrick advances around the table towards him. The laughter bubbles up easily. Somehow, after twenty five years some things feel easy. “Every year you come up with some new, stupid thing for a gift that a sixteen year old girl would make for the star of the baseball team or something. Or the thing the star of the baseball team is forced to get for his girl.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Aww,” Patrick leans up and presses a kiss into David’s neck, the same spot he always finds. “You’re my VIP, remember.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>David tilts his head to allow Patrick greater access to his neck, wrapping his arms around his husband to keep him close. “You told me I couldn’t have that title and I ate barbeque instead. Thank you, by the way, for this year’s gift. The bear made out of my </span>
  <em>
    <span>very expensive </span>
  </em>
  <span>sweater was</span>
  <em>
    <span> quite</span>
  </em>
  <span> thoughtful.” He allows the sarcasm to drip from his words. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“David, you couldn’t wear it anymore. We were going to have to throw it out. I thought it would live a better life as a bear than in a landfill with who knows what on it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His hands begin massaging Patrick’s shoulders absently. “You don’t think I’m a little old for a bear?” David asks, as if he didn’t already give it a prime spot in the bedroom like he’s actually the sixteen year old girl Patrick is buying gifts for. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean,” Patrick’s fingers begin to dance at his waist. “you kind of are a—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>David’s eyebrows try to scale his own face before he’s shaking his head at his husband and untangling their bodies. “No. Nope. Not funny.” David herds him around to the side of the table he wants Patrick at. “Sit.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>David’s nerves send electricity skittering through his body. Impressing his husband with a romantic evening after all these years shouldn’t affect him so, but it does. “I’ll be right back,” he promises, pressing a kiss to Patrick’s head and sliding the glass of red wine closer.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>David practically dances his way out of the room before grabbing the finished dinner in it’s pan with oven mitts, not having got to the fancy level of plating up food neatly, despite his dreams. He brings it over and sets it on one of the trivets their blacksmith makes for the store. He leaves it there with a flourish and then stares at Patrick, desperate for his reaction.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Lasagne?” Patrick breathes, and his eyes cast up to David’s as his head falls to the side, and the corners of his mouth dip with fondness. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>David</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“First recipe I got from your family. First thing you ever asked me to make.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Imagine,” Patrick says, as if he could even possibly remember that conversation they had while he was high as a kite on anesthesia, “You making me lasagne for Valentine’s Day.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop it.” Heat rises up David’s neck and burns into his cheeks. He flaps the oven mitts at his husband. His face and hands move in a flurry as if to cover up any real emotions. “I already regret everything.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick reaches his hand out, steady and strong, despite the wrinkles that have started to form due to never fully adhering to David’s careful admonishments about moisturiser. David allows one of his hands to fall into Patrick’s, the oven mitts tightly held in the other, and enjoys the feeling of Patrick’s thumb running over the back of his hand. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick’s eyes are wide and solemn as he asks, “Do you? Really?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” David whispers.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Patrick tells him, lifting David’s hand to his lips and pressing a sweet kiss across his knuckles, “for doing this, for us.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He feels too much, his heart swelling up in his chest making it tight, and David thinks it should be impossible that there's still so much to feel where Patrick is concerned. "It was nothing," David demurs, sliding the oven mits off and placing them on the sidebar. "Just a quick dinner."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"David, this is not nothing."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>David slides into his seat and takes a sip from his wine glass. "Of course it's not. That's just what I'm supposed to say. It was a lot of fucking work and it had better be delicious. Hand me your plate."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Patrick smiles fondly at him again, and David knows Patrick can see everything David feels, but he dutifully picks up his plate and hands it over. David goes through the motions of putting a careful piece of lasagne on Patrick's plate and adding the sides before passing it over. He makes a big show of filling up his own plate while stealing glances at Patrick. He's rewarded with the happy groan of someone who put something fabulous in their mouth. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Oh, David, you know this is almost as tasty as your usual Valentine's Day gift."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>David cannot help the wolfish grin that curls on his face as he stabs a particularly cheesy bite of lasagne. "On, don't worry. I have plans for dessert."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The heart-shaped waffle iron is real, or at least it was in the late 90s when my mother acquired hers and started making heart-shaped waffles on the regular, but always dyed pink on Valentine's Day, but she has never loved eggs enough to poach them in heart-shaped molds. </p>
<p>The songs in this fic are as follows:</p>
<p>You're in My Heart - Rod Stewart<br/>The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face - Celine Dion<br/>All My Life - KC and JoJo<br/>You're Still the One - Shania Twain<br/>From This Moment On - Shania Twain<br/>My Funny Valentine - Barbra Streisand<br/>Songbird - Fleetwood Mac<br/>A Case of You - Joni Mitchell<br/>The Best - Tina Turner<br/>You're Timeless to Me - Hairspray</p>
<p>Thanks as always for reading. Kudos and comments mean the world to me, but so do the hits. I hope you're all doing okay in this crazy world order. Enjoy the fluff. I think we could all use it.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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